Human Nature
by Dannyblue
Summary: Third in the "Vampire Sam" series. Prequel to "Feast for the Senses" and "Night Music." Dean couldn't do it.


**Title:** Human Nature  
**Author:** Dannyblue  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Word Count:** 688 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Prequel to Feast for the Senses and Night Music. "He couldn't do it."  
**Spoilers:** None.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Supernatural_.

* * *

He couldn't do it.

Sam was kneeling at his feet, the knees of his jeans soaked through because the alley was still wet from the rain. He was kneeling there, looking up at him, eyes glittering cat-bright in the moonlight. His head was held high, chin tilted back to bare his throat and give his brother a cleaner shot.

And he couldn't do it.

Dean's grip tightened on the handle of the machete. He became hyper aware of the razor sharp blade raised high above his head. And everything he'd believed crumbled to dust.

For weeks he'd barely eaten, barely slept. He'd hunted, running nonstop on endless cups of black coffee. And, all the while, this moment had been in his mind. The moment when he found the thing that was Sam but wasn't. The thing out there killing with Sam's hands. Draining victims dry with Sam's mouth. Luring prey with Sam's voice.

Dean knew he had to end it. And he'd believe, with every fiber of his being, that he could do it.

Until he lifted the machete.

Because the eyes looking up at him were filled with resignation and remorse, acceptance and understanding. All that touchy-feely, chick-flicky crap.

And, right then, Dean knew it was _Sam_ kneeling there. _Sam_ staring out at him from behind those silver, cat-bright eyes.

And he couldn't do it.

Dean took a deep breath, his own eyes fluttering closed. Slowly, his arm dropped, the machete suddenly too heavy to hold up a second longer. All at once, those weeks of hunting caught up with him. His body sagged, and he had to fight the urge to let himself fall to the wet cement.

There were a few long seconds of silence. And then...

"Dean?" Sam said, voice faint with confusion. Dean didn't have to open his eyes to see the bewilderment on his face.

To see Sam kneeling on the cold cement, head still raised slightly to bare his throat. And make it easier for Dean to kill him.

Dean's stomach turned.

"Get up," he whispered, voice raspy and dry.

"What? But…"

Dean wrenched his eyes open, "I said get the _fuck_ up!" he growled, words echoing through the alley like a gunshot.

And, suddenly, he didn't want to look at Sam anymore. So he turned away, staring at the old, crumbling bricks of the building beside him. He tried to pull himself together. And maybe hoped, in some small part of him, that Sam would take the chance to attack. Would force Dean to do what should already have been done.

There was a long silence, heavy and thick as the shadows surrounding them. Then he heard cloth rustling as his brother stood up.

Taking another long, deep breath, Dean turned. And it was still just Sam. Not some drooling, blood-soaked monster with a snarling mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, glaring at him with hate-filled eyes. Just Sam, wearing the same bemused look he had worn a hundred times before.

Dean's grip tightened on the handle of the machete.

"Dean," Sam began, voice questioning.

Dean almost flinched from the sound of that voice. "Shut up, Sam. Just…shut up for a minute."

Head pounding, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck," he growled, because he couldn't think of anything else to do. Because this was supposed to be it, it was supposed to be over. For weeks he'd grieved and hunted. Ignored everyone and everything. Focused solely on finding his brother and putting him to rest. And this was supposed to be it. The end.

He'd kinda been looking forward to it. Finally being able to fall apart.

But it looked like he was going to have to put off falling apart for a little while longer.

Dean didn't even realize he was walking until he'd made it to the mouth of the alley. Then he focused on getting to the car. Not on what had almost happened. Not on what he was still holding in his hand.

Not on what he was supposed to do now.

It was a few seconds before he heard familiar footsteps falling behind him.

**The End**


End file.
